


Smoke's Gone Out

by AeeDee



Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Casual Sex, Dark, Drinking, M/M, Secret Relationship, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:39:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2327351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeeDee/pseuds/AeeDee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daken said to him, once, “You’re fucked up, kid.” Johnny's response was, "Must be."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke's Gone Out

He’s smoking his second cigarette of the hour, watching the smoke trail rise as he sinks back into his chair. Inhaling in one slow, aching deep breath and it’s almost pleasurable. The gentle burn when the smoke drifts its way out, and his throat itches in a way he’d forgotten.

Eyes on him, but it’s a tense minute before either of them says a word. It always begins like this; there’s little room for conversation. Little need.

The first words he’d heard, when he opened the door; someone he hadn’t seen in a while, like a memory from a dream. That brusque voice, sharp-tongued as he’d ever been. “Looking good for a dead man.”

“Says you, of all people,” he’d sent a smirk back, because humor was the easiest way to deflect. To lessen the nervousness, the tinge of anxiety burrowing its way into his chest.

A quiet sound of humor, of amused acknowledgment. That’s about as kind as it gets from Daken. “Heh.”

“Didn't think you'd return my call.”

A shrug, and a lopsided grin that’s more sinister than it should be. An expression that only he wears. “How could I ignore it.”

“For the third straight time, you mean,” tongue in cheek.

“Fifth. You missed a few.”

A couple. He should’ve said a couple. That’s the comeback he wants to make, but the words expire before he can voice them.

This is how it goes; they sink into a familiar silence. Johnny’s leaning back into the chair in the far corner and Daken’s sprawled across the couch like it belongs to him. Hand loosely gripping the edge of an empty can of beer and he’s staring, watching that smoke trail in silence. Eyes glossy and dark, and when Johnny catches his gaze there’s something tense being said. But he’s never been good at understanding damn near anything he tells him.

Daken doesn’t put sound behind any of those words, he just stares, and stares. He smiles to himself, a lazy curl of his lips that starts to stretch across his face. Closes his eyes in a slow blink and sits up. Leans forward, and looks Johnny dead-on, points at him; two fingers pressed together and his thumb tugged back like the hammer of a gun.

“Kiss me,” he says.

“What.”

“You’re thinkin’ it,” he says. “You want to.”

“I’m not thinkin’ anything.” He tells the truth. Close enough to it, anyway.

“Don’t be a pussy,” he says.

“I’m not.”

In the absence of words, Daken’s shrugging as he drops his hand and takes the last sip from his can, tilting it completely upside down until he’s satisfied it’s all gone. 

Johnny takes another drag of his cigarette. This one’s somewhat louder than the rest, almost a sigh from something bordering on exhaustion and frustration. Doesn’t know at what, though. Never does, lately.

“When’d you start,” Daken says. That voice, callous and direct. Intrusive.

“Start what,” but he knows.

“You know,” he pauses. “Getting cancer.”

“Don’t judge.”

“I’m not.” He shrugs with some dramatic flair, hands going up in exasperation, “You know the shit I do.”

“Unfortunately,” but he does smile a bit.

“I’m gonna die before anybody,” he says, rising to his feet with a leisurely sway. “You want one,” he says, holding up the empty can.

“Nah,” Johnny says. “’m good.”

Daken’s retreating towards the kitchen, but he still presses on, his voice extending its ghostly hands behind him. “So when’d you start.”

“I dunno.” But he does. “Pretty recently. Sort of.”

“Very definitive,” is the sarcastic response, and with a slam of the fridge door he’s sauntering into the room like he never left, at ease and suave.

“Well,” and there’s a hesitant pause, but as usual he’s got nowhere near as much restraint as he should. “I used to, you know.”

“Right,” and he stops just beside him, looming above him as he snaps back the tab.

“Picked it up again, I guess… A few weeks ago. I don’t know.”

Daken’s offering him a sip from the can, and Johnny hesitantly accepts, winding his hand around the cold metal and noticing how warm Daken’s fingers are when they ghost against his. Takes that initial sip and almost frowns at how cold it is and hands it back, as Daken takes his turn. 

“I just felt like it.”

“Being dead does that.”

“Huh,” Johnny says.

“Makes you miss certain things,” Daken says.

“Familiar things,” Johnny suggests.

“Sure.” He’s still looming above him; Johnny’s looking up. Feels something tightening inside him, something slow that’s twisting and he doesn’t know what it means.

“You’re doing it again,” Daken’s voice is a low rustling.

Johnny blinks at him; idly puts his cigarette to his lips and lets it rest there.

Daken snatches it from his mouth, swift fingers and Johnny’s about to protest, but he instead rolls his eyes when Daken takes a drag from it. Takes a long drag, though, and Johnny knows where he’s going with this before he arrives there.

Exhales the smoke into his face like it’s some kind of joke, and Johnny stares at him in that uncomfortable silence as Daken exhales that slow trail until it’s gone. 

Daken’s pressing that cigarette back against Johnny’s mouth and there’s something uncomfortable in the way he slides it in slowly, his lips parting around it.

“If you want something,” Daken says, “You need to just go for it.”

Johnny frowns, almost recoiling back. Takes an almost aggressive drag and pulls that cigarette away, speaking and coughing faintly through the smoke, “You fuckin’-”

“Huh,” but it’s a sound of genuine curiosity, and Daken’s looking down at him with a bemused scrutiny as he waits for Johnny to assemble his words properly.

“Stop telling me what to do.”

“Oh.” He’s almost disappointed with that response. Seems to remember his can of beer and drinks from it quietly, as if to pacify himself as Johnny continues on.

“You think you fucking know everything,” Johnny says. 

“You’re such a kid,” Daken says.

“Shut up.”

Daken’s drinking and Johnny’s smoking and it’s another uncomfortable lapse of silence. There’s no room for him, but Daken’s sitting on Johnny’s chair.

He’s straddling his hips and Johnny’s looking up at him with annoyance, a sneer at the edge of his lips and half-rolled eyes. Daken’s looking down at him still, like he’s something endearing and naïve, something innocent and he almost looks pleased. 

“You’re heavy,” Johnny says.

“What’d you call me for,” Daken’s asking.

“What.”

“What’d you call me for,” and he’s setting his drink down, leaning around Johnny’s body like it’s not there, pressing his body against him to make sure his hand reaches the floor. Rises back up and waits for his answer, leaning closer than he should.

“I don’t know,” Johnny says.

“Augh,” it’s a faint growl.

“You’re too heavy for this shit,” Johnny’s looking down at Daken’s legs.

“Did you miss me,” Daken says.

“Gross.” But a grin’s almost visible. “Don’t give yourself too much credit.”

“Right.”

Hands. Hands on his lower back and Johnny knows where this is going before it gets there. “Cigarette’s out,” Daken says.

“Still a few drags left,” Johnny holds it out—just slightly enough—to show him. Those hands are pressing down with more intent, a slight pressure as Daken’s fingers are tugging at the edge of his shirt.

“Take them.”

“Stop telling me what to do,” Johnny says. “It’s not attractive.”

“I want to fuck you.”

“Wow,” but he does laugh; a manifestation of nervous energy. “Points for honesty.”

“Are you done.”

“Shut up,” Johnny says.

Daken’s fingers drumming against his lower back with idle energy, frustrated patience as Johnny takes a drag and exhales it in Daken’s face, dramatic to prove a point. But he doesn’t know what it is, anyway. Doesn’t matter.

He’s exhaling and Daken kisses him; licks his lips with his tongue and presses their mouths together and there’s something painfully coarse about it, something uncomfortable. Johnny parts his lips instinctively and Daken’s not the kind of person you have to ask twice. 

A firm hand on the side of his face and Daken’s finally moving off him, but he’s not allowing any distance to crawl between them. That hand holds him there, keeps his face close as Daken’s aggressive tongue fucks his mouth.

Johnny forgot what this felt like, more than most things. Likely buried the memory somewhere. 

Kissing him always had a way of feeling obscene. Like he was crossing a line he’d established somewhere. A line he should respect, like a good boy.

He’s never been much of a do-gooder, though. Never a successful one. 

Daken’s crushing Johnny’s cigarette between his fingers and Johnny’s almost gasping from how difficult it is to breathe; he’s gasping for breath against the side of Daken’s face when they break for just long enough. Daken’s biting at his jaw and then his lips and it’s not enough, never has been, especially not now.

Biting at his lips and he forgot how soft they were, but he never forgot the scent of Johnny’s skin or the sound of his exasperated groans. The way he frowns to himself when he’s aroused and too uptight to say anything about it one way or another.

The way he looks at him, once they start touching each other. Once they get past the bullshit.

Too much talking, not enough substance. Not enough meaning.

Meaning, like, “I called you because I missed you,” and

Between the heavy breathing and groans under his breath.

“I was scared when I thought I’d lost you for good.” 

You can’t just show up and say that to somebody.

Daken’s hands are crawling beneath his shirt and they’re tracing his skin in slow circles, nails drawing thin lines up and down his back. Mine. He’s biting his neck, biting it sharp enough to bruise; _mine_.

He never wanted to own or really have anybody, until he met Johnny.

Good boy Johnny, hometown hero Johnny. Smile and wave.

Johnny, smoking and kicking back beers with him as the night goes on, and on. Johnny, whose greatest fear is being revealed for who he is; his fears and vulnerabilities, deep down, because so many of them expose raw anger and resentment that terrifies him to his heart and soul. Johnny, so afraid to be real, so afraid to be human and flawed.

He never wanted to wreck someone, the way he wants to fuck and destroy Johnny. To break him and see him rise from the ashes of his own combustion.

The night’s wearing on and Daken’s pulling off his clothes, one piece at a time and it feels more familiar than it ever should. They’re not supposed to end up here. Not as often as they do. Not every, every time. 

Trailing more kisses down Johnny’s neck as he’s working at his belt buckle and they’d stopped doing this for such a long time. Life felt good for Johnny, then; things seemed better.

But maybe they never really were, because here he is again. Johnny came back from the other side of hell and one of the first things he did was to dial that number.

Daken said to him, once, “You’re fucked up, kid.” Johnny’s response was, “Must be.”

He said that and they’d kissed and touched and fucked after the sun fell, until it rose again. Daken promised Johnny he’d never tell anybody what they’d done, and he still hasn’t. Not a single word.

Daken’s been inside him more times than he can remember anymore, and he’s never said a damn word. Johnny will take this secret to his grave. With so many others.

“Like you said,” Daken even grinned a bit, when he agreed, “This never happened.”

Johnny told him, “it never does.”

Daken’s pushing inside him and the only thing Johnny’s completely certain of is that the room’s somehow growing darker and the shadows are starting to speak. Telling him he wants this, telling him he needs this. Needs this like he’s been gone for too long, needs to never go away again.

“Don’t leave me, Johnny.”

But Daken said nothing.

Yeah.

Smoke’s gone out, but those ashes are still burning on his coffee table.


End file.
